


But Damn, He Made Me Pray

by Good0mens



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Author Is Sleep Deprived, Blow Jobs, Immortal Husbands Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Light Angst, M/M, Memories, Nicky | Nicolò di Genova Loves Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Religious Discussion, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Why Did I Write This?, borderline Hozier levels of blasphemy, just more poetry about soft boys, mentions of assault, the inherent trauma of the catholic church
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-24
Updated: 2020-09-24
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26626858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Good0mens/pseuds/Good0mens
Summary: Nicolo was born with a rosary bead wrapped around his neck, and it took him over 30 years to cut the umbilical cord.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 22
Kudos: 325





	But Damn, He Made Me Pray

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the song 'Jacob from the Bible' by Jake Wesley Rogers, which inspired this whole fic. I recommend listening to it.

The dark wood creaks underneath his weight as Nicolo takes his seat on the end of the pew. It has no give, digging into the notches of his spine. It reminds him of the way his knees hit the hard ground before the altar; love is sacrifice, and to worship is to endure pain for your faith.

The Church in Santa Maria di Castello is a quiet presence that looms large in Nicolo’s mind. It is currently largely empty; it’s late, lit only by candlelight. They cast long shadows on the walls, covering half the crucified Jesus in darkness.

He leans his forearms on the pew in front of him, clasps his hands together loosely. It’s not quite a prayer; he can’t seem to bring himself to close his eyes, or find the words in Latin to utter apologies or beg forgiveness. The language is dead, forgotten, cast aside for something new. But it’s still whispered and sung within the walls of this house for worship.

Nicolo had always felt like churches, their high ceilings, painted frescoes and stained glass, were filled with these ghosts – of language, of lost faith, of people. His _nonna_ would have reprimanded him for it, though. So he bit his tongue, sometimes hard enough to paint his teeth metallic crimson, and he learned to swallow dirty blood first, before he learned to spit it out on holy ground.

-

It never sat quite right with him. Giving himself over to God, to a faceless being. His pastor would stand above the parish and spout prophetic words about unworthiness, about sin, about the divine path to redeem humankind.

He thinks about his sister, so kind and vivid in her laughter and compassion; about his mother, hands cracked from hot soapy water, working the dough to feed them; about the boy who kissed him outside the churchyard, how his fingers touched the nape of Nicolo’s neck, so soft.

That, to him, was divinity.

But Nicolo has spent so long practicing faith that he’s murmuring the words without even thinking about them. It feels hollow, like he’s performing a rite to a song he doesn’t know, but no one is here to see him clench his hands, white knuckled, crescents of pain digging into his palms and the psalms taste bitter in his mouth or maybe that’s just the sticky aftermath of sin still lingering on his tongue, _amen, amen, amen_ -

-

Nicolo was born with a rosary bead wrapped around his neck, and it took him over 30 years to cut the umbilical cord. Growing up with religion meant learning the lesson of restraint over and over and over again. It meant a thumb brushing your forehead and scrubbing ash out of your skin. It meant a finger in your mouth to open up and accept the body of Christ and throwing it up in the bathroom.

-

He kissed the boy underneath the olive tree again, and that night the only forgiveness he wanted was from his mother, for not telling her why his skin was flushed, and his eyes were bright.

Little traumas tear themselves up in his abdomen: a split lip from the boy’s father when he caught them tasting the joy in each other’s mouths; his own mother doesn’t hug him when he comes home, just kneads her wrists and looks at him sadly; the priest tells him there’s something corrupt inside of him.

Nicolo becomes a disciple to his own loneliness.

-

Years after that, he joins the crusades. In a different part of the world, hundreds of miles away from the suffocating isolation of that house, divinity is the furthest thing on Nicolo’s mind. He doesn’t find salvation in the violence and bloodshed in Jerusalem. He finds it outside the wall, on the other end of his broadsword.

His name is _Yusuf._

-

Even after nights of burning longing flare into the fierce ardour that is their love, Nicolo can’t get enough of him. When Yusuf brings an arm around his waist while they sleep, Nicolo grabs his hand and intertwines their fingers. When Yusuf’s hands cup his neck to peck him once, Nicolo grips the fabric of his shirt and pulls him closer, kisses him until they're breathless. When they sit beside each other, Nicolo cannot stop himself from reaching out and hauling Yusuf into his arms.

Again and again and again, Nicolo maps out the landscape of Yusuf’s body, traces his finger through every dip and every crevice. He learns and relearns his skin, inch by inch. He feels starved, frantic with desperation.

He loves Yusuf. He loves Yusuf with a recklessness he doesn’t recognise in himself. But he can’t-

It’s all he remembers about his mother; her hands, working themselves raw and cracked to the bone for love. His hands still haven’t yet learned to touch someone without giving all of his devotion away. It’s the only way he knows how to love: wholly, and completely consumed; as a sacrifice.

\--

He watches as Yusuf sits on his prayer mat and performs _Salat al-'asr_. Yusuf finds solace in religion, but he doesn’t take issue with the fact that Nicolo doesn’t pray. His ribs act as a parapet for his heart; even Joe’s tenderness around the subject feels like an admission that something is broken within him.

One night, while they’re lying tangled together in the sheets, Nicolo asks him the question that burns behind his eyes.

_Where do you keep your faith?_

Yusuf fits one palm into the centre of Nicolo’s chest: _right_ _here, with you._

-

Now, as Nicky gets on his knees, the hardwood floor he kneels upon is a comfort; the solid feel of it keeps him grounded into reality as he looks up from between Joe’s legs where he sits on the sofa.

Sunlight filters into their living room in Malta, and from Nicky’s position he can see the way the golden rays bathe his lover in warm yellows, highlighting the pink blush of his cheeks. Joe’s broad shoulders roll as his strong hands rest on Nicky’s neck, cupping his face.

It feels like prayer when he wraps a hand around Joe’s cock, thick and dark. Nicky closes his eyes when he leans forward to savour Joe, licking the sensitive head. He breathes in the heady musk of his husband, tastes the sea salt from their swim earlier in the day.

Joe’s hands slide from his neck into his hair, tangling in the short strands. He doesn’t pull or push, content to just rest them there, feel Nicky as he bobs his head down to take him in further.

“So good, my love,” Yusuf whispers, reverent and soft.

It’s taken centuries for Nicolo to rediscover his faith. The feverish eagerness has quelled with time under Joe’s constant and enduring love. He’s anchored by Joe, and the devotion they share. It guides him and keeps him strong. When they reach for one another, they touch across centuries, with the comfort of a love that’s lasted a millennium.

Nicky’s cock is achingly hard between his legs, but he resists the urge to rut into his own hand at the feel of Joe in his mouth. He loves this, loves how his jaw hurts with the effort of sucking and licking along his cock.

He pulls back, moaning at the saliva that coats Joe’s cock, and jerks him off. It’s smooth and slick, the slide of his hand, and Joe bucks his hips into the grip. Nicky’s eyes flick between the cockhead that pokes through his fist and Joe’s blissful face above him. Nicky bites the red, puffy skin of his bottom lip, can’t help but sigh along with the beautiful sounds coming from Joe.

He doesn’t beg for forgiveness from Joe. It is freely given, just like his love. He traces verses of the Bible between Joe’s thighs, and Joe kisses Muhammad’s lovely prophetic words against his wrists.

The next time he takes Joe into his mouth, he doesn’t stop until his nose is pressed into the dark hair of Joe’s groin. Joe makes a noise like’s been punched and curls his body around Nicky, hand on his neck tightening slightly.

He thinks of that Church, of the scars on his palms that have long healed, of what it means to have faith. He thinks it must mean this; devoting himself to Joe, every day, and allowing Joe to do the same.

When Joe comes down his throat, Nicky swallows it all greedily, keeps his mouth on Joe’s cock until it’s soft and twitching with sensitivity. Then Joe is hauling him into his lap and kissing the taste from his tongue. 

They are wrapped up in each other, bare feet and hearts, the scent of sweat and skin filling the air around them. There are no ghosts here, no judgment – just the pleasure they find in each other. Their love made divine. 


End file.
